


Little Lies

by Porgmother



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anniversary, Birthday, Fluff, M/M, PTSD, Techie has a name, Techienician, briefly, third fandom anniversary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 16:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17665907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porgmother/pseuds/Porgmother
Summary: For the third anniversary: Techie is doing his best, but preparing for a surprise-surprise birthday might be the death of him





	Little Lies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theweddingofthefoxes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theweddingofthefoxes/gifts).



> Starts dark, gets considerably lighter (I promise)

Techie was bad at keeping secrets.

Before Armitage finding him, before Matt, before everything, he had seen his fair share of disembodied tongues, their lying owners sobbing around blood as Madeline stood over them, reminding the rest of the Clan that ‘There were always consequences to lying and keeping secrets.’

His brother, ripping him suddenly from that life, was better but not by much: He didn’t abide by lying, though his methods were a far cry from Madeline’s.

So, Techie was very bad at keeping secrets and very good at telling the truth, largely because his stomach would turn at the very  _thought_ of obfuscating a fact.

Therefore, he has spent the last week nauseous to the point of nearly passing out, making both Tidge and Matt concerned, suspicious, and watchful. Having already made a secret by cutting into the Finalizer’s staff and stormtrooper database, he’s an absolute mess every time he takes another step in his little plan.

He has to cut a camera to get into the food stock. But it’s back online before anyone notices, and he cuts dead air into the feed later, seamlessly. He pukes afterward, shaking.  

He has to call out ‘sick’ to get an extra few hours in the little quarters he shares with the other technician. This isn’t the hardest lie to accomplish. When he’s shivering in his bed, blanket around his shoulders, he gets a message from Tidge asking him to ‘ask for anything he might need.’

Well.

Techie gathers supplies from all over: Crinkly supply paper from the basic inventory crew. Old, damaged cords in several colors from maintenance. The favor of a covered shift for falsified commendations in his co-worker’s accounts. He’s all over the Finalizer in the week beforehand, and by the time the date arrives, he’s a mess of accumulated secrets, each one adding palpitations, sweat, and fever to his troubles.

He feels like his tongue even swells the night before, because: Isn’t this the last night to confess? Before Matt finds out anyway? And will Matt even _like_  this arrangement? Or is it too forward, too intimate? They’ve been going together for a couple years now, lived together for half that time. But holidays, especially personal ones, rarely came up.

Matt lay in their two person bed, a special allowance usually reserved only for married officers, cradling Techie’s head to his chest, trying to soothe him. “Hey, baby, baby it’s okay. We’ll take you to medical tomorrow, when that doc you like is on shift.”

“It’s just stress,” Techie manages to lie, groaning when the nausea passes all the way up to his forehead, making him dizzy in spite of lying down. “I’ll be fine tomorrow, probably.”

Matt kisses his forehead, as if he knows exactly where the whoosh of the security tech’s blood and worry is collecting. It’s so soft, so present. Techie melts. Matt goes on, “We have the day off together. Magic right?”

Techie keeps his lips shut tight and nods, hiding in Matt’s warmth until he eventually passes out from exhaustion, his night pill, and the relaxing breezes of air that pass over the top of his head.

 

* * *

 

He begs off the trip to medical by assuring Matt that he ought to try eating and seeing if that helps. He feels better today, somehow, with excitement starting to pepper his nerves. Though his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, he submits to another kiss on his forehead before Matt heads out to bring in a late breakfast. He’s kept it together this long, now comes the main event. Finding out if it was worth it- if his research and efforts will be appreciated, or found intrusive and unwanted.

As soon as the door slides shut, he’s off the bed, tripping but staying upright on colt-weak legs.

There’s a lot to do in the next twenty minutes, and he needs to do it without falling apart under the stress of his amygdala’s screeching, illogical klaxon of:  _Ma-Ma will find out, she’ll cut you, Armitage will find out, he’ll get rid of you, Matt will find out, he won’t like it, he’ll drop you, he won’t love you anymore._ Cut, rid, drop. Cut rid, drop.

He gets the cords hung up like streamers, the presents lined up on the sideboard, and himself in the nice tunic he got from cultural exchange crew: an approximation of something Matt’s original people would have worn, if they were still around.

(Maybe they were, somewhere. It was a nice thought.)

He sets up a traditional medley of whispery, windy music that slipped past the consciousness without intruding, with soft, hypnotic drum beats that he finds frankly  _sedating_. If he’d lived with Matt’s people, he’d do nothing but sleep.

(Another nice thought, actually.)

When Matt comes in, Techie is absolutely  _shaking_ , from the top of his hair down to his toenails. The man frowns, taking in the festive, if unimpressive, decor. He has a tray of food, laden and heavy with a smell that Techie would normally find mouth-watering, but today only makes him blanch. Matt sets it down on their little side table, putting his hands then onto his hips, “Um…?”

He doesn’t seem to get it. But then, why would he? These kinds of personal records are sealed, unimportant to the daily life, the hive-mind organism that the personnel of the ship are expected to live and breathe, letting go of their individuality in exactly the same way Techie had made himself small and in the background at Peach Trees. Nothing to see here, nothing special, not a person, just a piece of furniture.

“Ha-ppy Birthday,” he croaks before he can get too lost in his memories and their sensory daggers.

Matt frowns a bit more deeply and then seems to notice Techie’s long shirt, his soft pants that come to fine cuffs at his ankles. “That’s uh- familiar. That design.”

Not exactly the reaction Techie was expecting, but it’s not a bad one, so. “It’s- it’s from your planet. Where they got you. It’s. Special? For-- celebrations. Like--” he waves ineffectively at the ‘streamers’ and the banner with crooked, foreign penmanship that he was assured spelled ‘Congratulations on Your Life Year.’ Apparently, this was the custom on that continent, in that little unremembered country.

“It’s. A thing?” Techie tries desperately not to lose it, not to start panicking. There’s nowhere for him to go unless he changes, so he’s as good as trapped in their room. “It’s a birthday thing. Where you’re f-from. For  _birthdays._ ”

“Holy shit,” Matt’s eyes go wide, and Techie swears he can see gears and lights going wild behind those wonderful, ugly eyeglasses. The redhead has to grab the sideboard to keep from falling over and bruising himself on their trunks of personal items. It’s the last thing he needs. “What-”

Before Matt can ask whatever he was intending to ask, Techie heaves in a breath and unsticks his liar tongue from its prison, “I hacked into the personal files, I found yours, I stole a cake, I bartered things for presents, and I lied about being sick two days ago because I was making you this-” he picks up one of the badly wrapped presents and shakes it like it’s a bomb he wants to go off. “-and I’m- oh my god-”

His legs go out from under him, suddenly. He finds himself on his knees, the package still miraculously intact, no dents at all. Matt is  _there_ , just like he always is, steady and warm and in charge of Techie’s wavering health. “Oh my god, do you hate it?” he asks, miserable, dizzy.  _So_  dizzy. He hadn’t had dinner the night before. Hadn’t had any water- or food, obviously. “I shouldn’t have pried- this was- really intrusive, I shouldn’t have assumed-”

“ _Brennan_ ,” Matt interrupts, and his lost and found birth name shocks him right into shutting up. “Give a guy a minute, stars.”

His voice is gentle, not angry. Soothing, with that edge of gently making fun. Techie smile in spite of himself, arms loosely holding just one of Matt’s. He’s still so  _anxious._  “I didn’t mean to keep secrets, I swear,” he moans into one of Matt’s pecs, feeling like an idiot, feeling like he’s made this day about  _him_. The rest comes out in a rush: “I just wanted you to have this and I was worried you would hate it.  _Do you hate it?_ ”

“Why would I hate it? Damn, is this why you’ve been barfing all week?” Matt still sounds mystified. It makes Techie’s gut grumble and roll.

“I was just. Nervous,” he says, pulling himself away so he can try to stand. He has a song to sing and everything. This is not according to plan.

Matt goes up with him, hands hovering. It should make the redhead frustrated, as if he’s being babied, but it makes him feel safe and guarded instead. Matt’s overprotective, to a fault, which had meant the end of more than one fling. “This goes beyond nervous, baby. But  _look_ , okay, I get it now. I think.”

Techie leans against the sideboard, smiling a little crookedly, feeling weak and stupid. And loved.

“I got you-- I mean, you should open this and then you’ll see.”

Matt’s eyebrows furrow in puzzlement, but his eyes are happy. Techie later discovers that Matt vaguely remembers the last birthday he had celebrated. Not his own, but a cousin’s; so long ago, it’s as evanescent as fog, and he can’t nail down any good details. But when Techie sings, softly, with his eyes downcast in embarrassment, Matt bursts into brief, happy tears, and it makes them  _both_ dizzy.

The first package is a complementary outfit. The embroidering along the edges of Matt’s cuffs make him peer in wonderment. It is exactly like a lost language, calling out to him, asking him to remember. He almost does. Techie thinks he looks unfairly handsome, the tall collar stately against Matt’s neck, the measurements very kindly tailored to him. Another favor for a favor he will have to pay, but which is worth every inconvenience.

The second package is new gloves, for working. Soft and well-made, Matt won’t have to worry about stiff fingers or electric burns for a long, long time.

The third package is a corded necklace, long enough to hide very low against his chest. It’s a facsimile, in wire, of Kylo Ren’s lightsaber, and it prompts  _another_ retelling of how Kylo found and lashed the imperfect kyber and conquered a whole moon, well before he was even an attendant to the supreme leader. Techie finds himself on his back with Matt’s hand in his hair, kissing him insistently, praise on his lips in between brief pockets of air.

“I can’t believe you thought I would be angry, or like, what? Break up with you?” he teases, sitting up to loop the necklace over his head. It’s messy and perfect. Techie grimaces and laughs a kind of groan, covering his eyes.

“You know what it was like,” he complains, feeling leagues better with food in his stomach and most of his lies confessed. He’ll have to frame his trespass to Armitage as a half-truth: Seeing if he  _could_ hack the system in place, just to see. Over the next few months, he’d keep doing it with other databases and report back to the General, lending himself credence. He would get better at lying, just- only a little bit. 

Matt’s tone goes soft as he leans back over, kissing the corner of Techie’s mouth with consummate affection. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t understand at first. I had no idea my birthday was today. Hadn’t thought about it in- well. Ever.”

Techie nods, running his hands through Matt’s curls, luxuriating in the relief that came from Matt carrying out a small, interesting birthday ritual where they joined palms and walked around his cake. It was all a relief. He felt foolish for all of his upset.

“Shit, did you- well. Do you know what yours is?”

Techie shook his head, accepting the kiss that followed. If Armitage were his twin, he'd know. But not even Tidge knew, being so young at the time. 

Matt brushed his thumbs over the redhead’s sharp cheekbones, clearly turning over a thought in his warm brown eyes. “Do you want to share mine?”

“Oh,” it was an exclamation with no punch, just a surprised sound that fell past his teeth. “I… No. No, I want you to have this. It’s yours. It’s always been yours.”

Matt flops to the side, pulling the other man against him, half sweet, half intimate. “Then, maybe half a year from now? Then we’ll always have something to look forward to. I’ll, uh, I’ll look up how they do things on Arkanis. You’re from there, too, right? Originally?”

“I think so,” he shrugs, “But you can do whatever you like. I’ll be happy.”

“I’ll make sure you are,” Matt says against his temple, squishing him in more securely. The lights are at half, and the special little lights Techie had strung together earlier are glowing with loose, happy warmth. It feels like they’re settling inside his chest. Matt is holding him and he’s not angry at all. There’s no cutting, no ridding, and no dropping.

Matt kisses him again, all kinds of promises landing as he praises the other tech, using both his given and taken names. It feels like the only truth there is, right there in Matt’s sure hold.

 

 

 


End file.
